


Things Once In Order (Now Seem So Strange)

by lovers_in_combat



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 4x12 - Freeform, Canon Compliant, F/M, M/M, Only mentions Braeden/Derek, Season 4 Spoilers, Slow Build, sterek is endgame
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 06:09:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2299331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovers_in_combat/pseuds/lovers_in_combat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Throughout the latter half of season 4, whenever Stiles can't sleep, he seems to end up at Derek's door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Once In Order (Now Seem So Strange)

**Author's Note:**

> This work is canon compliant. To that end, there will be mentions of Derek/Braeden and there will be scenes involving Stiles and Malia, if that's not your thing, all I can say is that this is Sterek, and the scenes involving the girls are not in any way graphic or detailed.  
> I know people have justifiable reasons for being uncomfortable with these relationships, if you would like me to tag something, please let me know and I'll do it as soon as is possible.

_And it gets pretty late_  
 _And the stations will change_  
 _And the things, once in order_  
 _Now seem so strange_  
 _Once I could tell all the hurt apart from myself_  
 _Now all I can see is the need, the need that_  
 _I came to get hurt._

 

Stiles can't sleep. Hasn't slept in months, if he is being honest with himself, which he tries to avoid when he can. Malia wasn't returning his calls, hadn't since she left his room a couple of nights previously, and while he didn't blame her, he was terrified of what it meant. If Peter got to her before she forgave Stiles, it could be disastrous. 

Lydia was still locked up at the Lake House with her Mom, and Scott had his own stuff going on. Between Kira leaving, and his dad, and trying to keep an eye on Liam... well, Scott was barely keeping his head above water. 

Finally, after nearly two hours of tossing and turning, he gives up, sighing, and climbs back out of the bed, throwing on the same clothes he'd slipped out of just a few hours ago. 

He'd gotten into the habit of this over the last few months. Every since the Nogitsune, or even before it, back when he'd thought that nightmares were the worst thing in his head. He scribbles a note for his Dad, just in case he wakes up to an empty house, and steps into the still, silent air, taking a deep breath. 

Starting up Roscoe, he winces at the sound of the engine breaking the quiet so late at night, and heads for downtown. On nights like these, he's learned that the only way to turn his brain off, is to drive. The streets are empty, for the most part at this hour, and he kind of liked the way everything was bathed in a yellow glow from the street lamps. The world seems softer around the edges, somehow, makes it harder to believe that any of the crap in his life is real. 

The radio plays softly in the background and he wanders aimlessly through the deserted streets, his breath coming easier with every passing moment. Without intending to, he ends up in Derek's neighborhood. He hasn't seen him in forever it seems, since the night of the Lacrosse game. He'd never been far from his thoughts, Stiles muses, but then that pretty much applied for as long as they had known each other. 

The thoughts of the deadpool return, and guilt swells in his throat like bile. He's pretty sure Derek still doesn't know that he was the third key. Stiles and Lydia hadn't told him, and historically speaking, Scott never told Derek anything if he could help it, though, admittedly, the pair are closer these days. 

As if on autopilot, Stiles pulls up to Derek's building and cuts the ignition. Derek is the third key, and he'd seen him the night of the lacrosse game. There was something wrong with him, he should have been able to hold that kid down, werewolf strength or not. They'd rushed off to Mexico to find him when he went missing, and did their best to help him when he was de-aged. But shit had hit the fan so quickly after that, and no one had really checked in, just assuming he was okay. What if he wasn't? The evidence was starting to pile up that there was something wrong, and if he were being honest, Stiles was pretty confident he was the only one who had noticed. 

Now seemed like as good a time as any to check in. 

He climbs the stairs to the loft two at a time, and takes a steadying breath before knocking. He has a key, Derek had given it to him when he left with Cora. Stiles hadn't known how to ask why, and still never had. As far as he knew, he was the only one of them all that had one. He hadn't used it since Derek came back, felt weird about letting himself in, now. So he knocks, and waits. 

The slide of the bolt against the metal of the door is the only sign that the knock had been heard, and then it's pulled aside, revealing Derek, sleep mussed and shirtless in a loose sweatpants and bare feet. 

Stiles finds himself swallowing, drinking the sight in. Derek had stopped scaring him a long time ago, but he'd always maintained an aura of power, even when he lost his Alpha status. He'd always seemed so much bigger than he was. Taller, wider, more solid. Even half dead, he'd never looked as vulnerable and as _human_ as he does right now. 

Now that he was here, and Derek was wordlessly staring him down, silently asking him why, Stiles feels pretty stupid. It's clear that Derek had been asleep, and suddenly Stiles doesn't know how to voice his concerns. 

Eventually Derek huffs a deep breath and turns his back, walking further into the loft and leaving the door open, a silent invitation for Stiles to follow. 

Derek produces a T-shirt from somewhere and pulls it over his head and turns back to face Stiles, wiping a hand over clearly tired eyes. 

They still haven't spoken. 

“Sorry,” Stiles breaks the silence, “I kind of forget sometimes that just because I'm awake doesn't mean everyone else is.”

Derek looks unimpressed, but then that is his usual face when looking at Stiles. He folds his arms across his chest, and for the quickest of moments there was a flicker at the edge of Stiles's thoughts. It looks defensive, rather than relaxed, as soon as the thought appears, it was gone, and Stiles is left wondering if he'd imagined things or not. 

“So why are you awake and here?” 

Stiles shrugs, going for nonchalant and likely failing miserably. 

“I was in the neighborhood?” he tries. 

Derek raises an eyebrow. 

“At 3 am?”

“Too much Adderall, I guess.” Stiles does his best to shrug it off. If he notices the lie, Derek never says, though Stiles has begun to suspect he there are a few werewolf tricks missing from Derek's arsenal. 

“What do you want?” 

For all of his impatience in the past, Derek has never sounded so resigned, so tired when dealing with Stiles and the weariness in his voice makes Stiles falter. They had never been kind to each other. Stiles doesn't even really think they knew how. He wants to be kind to Derek though. Wasn't that why he was here after all? Checking up on him when he knew no one else would? 

“You know what? Nevermind. It was stupid.” Stiles lies again. Derek doesn't call him out. Again. 

“Sorry I woke you up. I'll just -” he gestures behind him, indicating to leave when Derek sighs. 

“It's late” he points to the couch, “you shouldn't be out alone.” 

“Dude, no, it's totally cool.” 

Stiles tries to escape, he really does but suspected loss of werewolf strength aside, Derek still has the ability to stop him dead with a look. 

Derek walks back towards him, past him, and shuts the door. 

“Go to bed Stiles.” 

Stiles hesitates for the briefest of moments and lets his shoulders slump in defeat. 

“Yeah – yeah. Okay.”

It's a few moments later, when the lights are all out and silence has fallen, that Stiles' courage returns. 

“Derek?” he half whispers. 

A grunt in response. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, his voice soft this time, less casual than he had intended.

A loud sigh comes from the bed and eventually a whispered “no” before the sheets rustle and Stiles steals a glance. Derek is facing away from him, shoulders hunched and tense in a way that no one should ever be when in their own bed. 

The conversation is over, Stiles knows. But he got all the answers he needed anyway. 

**

A few nights later, Stiles finds himself back there again, standing in front of the large metal door and waiting for Derek to open it. He hadn't pretended to himself when he left the house that this wasn't where he would end up. 

Derek still doesn't know about the deadpool and Stiles really doesn't know how to go about telling him. Along with the bag of cash under Scott's bed, _Derek's cash_ , the list of things he is keeping from the other man is growing longer. It's not a sensation he is used to. If he thinks back hard enough, he can remember a time when he didn't trust Derek. Wouldn't have thought twice about lining him up for the firing squad if it saved the rest of their collective asses. Except, that's not entirely true either. 

Somewhere between hunters and swimming pools and too many damn funerals, that attitude had changed, if it had ever been real to begin with. Stiles was a terrible liar, especially to himself. He knows, objectively, that a lot of his initial fear of Derek had been because Derek was terrifying in more than one way. 

To a 16 year old who had been in love with Lydia Martin for as long as he could remember, being hit with the reality of _attraction_ , real, visceral, instant and begrudging attraction to someone, to _Derek_? It had been beyond terrifying. And so he was an asshole, but in his defence, so was Derek. Though probably not for the same reasons. 

When he'd woken on the couch the last time, morning light was streaming through the window, and the apartment was empty. He hadn't been surprised, but admittedly a little disappointed, and a little relieved. They had been on different paths for the longest time, but Stiles wasn't unaware of everything Derek had done to look for him, to help him, when the Nogitsune had him. A quiet understanding seemed to exist between them now. 

Their insults less barbed, their banter felt more comfortable and familiar rather than antagonistic, and when it really counted, there were very very few people Stiles would rely on more than Derek. So he needs to make this right. He needs to tell Derek about the deadpool, about the money, and together they can find a way to fix whatever has been done to him, they can save him. 

He knocks the door, lightly, and it takes a few moments but Derek opens the door once again, a bandage taped to his side. Stiles takes a moment to look over Derek's shoulder – the guns strewn on the table, Braeden asleep in the bed. Shit. 

“Sorry,” he whispered around the lump that had formed in his throat, “I'll go.” 

“Stiles -” Derek tried, but Stiles was already half way down the hall. 

He is half way down the stairs when he realizes he never heard the door slide shut. When he gets back into the jeep, he takes three long, steadying breaths before he turns the key and drives home. 

**

Malia forgives him and they stop the deadpool. Peter is still at large and that's a nightmare for another night. 

Stiles remembers a time in his life when solving the problem in front of him meant relief and celebration, but something still prickles at the back of his mind. Stopping Meredith hasn't miraculously made Derek better. Whatever is happening to him is still happening, he's all but human now. 

Braeden seems to have taught him a trick or two that's keeping him alive so far, but Stiles has always been a worst case scenario kind of a guy and he doesn't want to think about what happens when all of the werewolf is gone and there is only human left to fade. 

He finds himself too wired to sleep. Too worried. Too everything. 

He wants to drive over to Derek's and freak out at the source of his unease, but he knows that won't be fair on Derek, and won't really make him feel any better. Plus there is a chance Braeden will be there, and whenever he thinks about the last time, there is still a lump in his throat, though he hasn't had the luxury of examining why. 

He puts it out of his mind as best he can, punches his pillow a few times in frustration, and settles in to sleep. 

A couple of hours later, just as he's drifted off to sleep, his phone beeps and vibrates on his bedside locker, startling him awake once more. Malia groans beside him and turns her back, burying her head into the pillow and going back to sleep. 

Stiles learned long ago that if someone is texting him in the middle of the night that it's never good news. He sits up, scrubs at his face, and picks up his phone, squinting against the bright screen. 

**Derek: Lydia is here. Screaming.**

Shit. Shit shit shit. That's as far removed from good as it is possible to be. 

Stiles scrambles out of the bed and Malia opens her eyes and looks at him. 

“What's wrong?” she asks. 

“I gotta go out for a bit. Go back to sleep.” 

“You sure?” 

She looks concerned, and for a minute, as he's pulling on his pants and grabbing his keys, he considers telling her. They'd agreed no more secrets, and what's happening to Derek isn't exactly that, but he knows Derek. Knows him someplace deep in his bones, in a way that neither of them talk about or acknowledge. Derek texted him, not Scott, not Malia, not even his Dad or Chris Argent, and Derek doesn't like to show weakness to anyone. So he'll go alone, even though he has no idea what to do about any of this. 

“Yeah, I'm sure.” 

He's out the door before she can ask any further questions, and in the jeep on the way into the industrial part of town before three minutes have passed since he got the message. 

When he gets there, Braeden answers the door. Wordlessly she steps aside and he sees Derek, shirtless and sitting on the coffee table, facing Lydia on the couch. She's staring into space, clutching a steaming cup, and if nothing else Stiles thinks it's kind of funny that Derek seems to be the one comforting Lydia in this situation. 

Stiles approaches them, places a hand on Derek's shoulder and finds him cold. Derek doesn't flinch away, or even look at Stiles, but moves down a few inches and Stiles crouches in front of Lydia. 

“Lydia, you okay?” 

“I'm sorry,” she whispers, her voice hoarse as it is too often these days. “I don't know anything. I don't know, and Derek needs me to know, and I don't know and I'm sorry. What use are these damn powers when I can't help people?” 

She gets more hysterical with each passing word, and Stiles wonders if she has finally reached breaking point. Lydia has always been so resilient, so adaptable, so strong. It's something he's come to depend on. She is infuriating and brilliant and being driven mad by these powers that she doesn't understand and can't control. 

“Shh,” he soothes, and pulls her into an embrace, “Lydia, it's fine. We'll figure it out. It's okay.” 

He's glad Derek has lost the ability to hear the sound of a lie in his heart. Though, risking a glance to the man beside him, Stiles can tell he doesn't need supernatural powers to know the truth. 

“Lydia,” Derek says, gently, as if talking to a spooked animal, “maybe we should get you home.” 

Stiles nods in agreement. It's callous, but she is of no use to them like this. She needs rest, she needs to calm down so they can start figuring out how to save Derek. 

Braeden comes to stand beside them. She's holding a set of keys. 

“Come on, I'll take her.” 

Lydia goes without too much of a fight. Stiles can tell she's exhausted, like Derek, fear and weakness is not something that sits well with her. 

He'll check in with her in the morning. 

He and Derek sit in silence for a long few moments, before Derek, surprisingly, is the one to break it. 

“So I guess there's no avoiding it now.” 

Stiles looks at his hands. 

“You'd think for all of the impending death in our lives, I'd have worked out some kind of motivational speech by now.” 

Derek snorts a little at that and grins wryly. 

“Please don't give the eulogy.”

He gets up and picks up the cup Lydia had been holding, walking to the kitchen and placing it in the sink. When Stiles looks up, Derek is leaning against the sink, his back turned to Stiles, knuckles white. 

“Well,” he says eventually, “I guess I lasted seven years longer than I was meant to.” 

Stiles blanches at that and stalks into the kitchen. 

“Dude I swear to god if you ever say something like that again I will kick you in the nuts. And I can do it now too.”

Derek turns to face him, benign smile on his face. It pisses Stiles off like he wouldn't believe. This isn't Derek. This isn't the Derek he's known for the past year. This isn't the Derek that used to instill terror and arousal in him with the same look. 

“I could still kick your ass.” 

He's going through the motions, Stiles knows. But what he doesn't know is why. Stiles has always need to know why. 

“Don't do that, man. Don't act like you're okay with this and that the last seven years have just been bonus.”

“I've lost everything I've ever known about myself and a banshee is screaming on my doorstep in the middle of the night Stiles, what would you like me to do?” 

Even still, there is little to no emotion in Derek's voice. It's like he's resigned himself to this fate, like he's given up already, not even bothering to try and fight. 

“Be pissed. Be scared. Be depressed. Be anything but this because I swear to god Derek I will kick your ass if you don't start giving a crap about whether you live or die.” 

Stiles is in his face now. He briefly wonders when it became a place he was okay with being. When he became secure in the knowledge that no matter how many buttons he pushed, Derek would never really push back. Not hard, in any case. Not in any way that would cause any real damage. A year ago Stiles would have pissed himself being this close to Derek and goading him. But things have changed, so incrementally that he didn't even notice it until they were in the middle of it and there was nothing left to be done. 

Touches meant to aggravate and annoy and punish became touches of comfort, and declarations of mistrust became desperate attempts to save each other. Stiles knows, deep in his bones, in the places where he knows Derek best, that if the tables were reversed, _when_ they were reversed, Derek did everything in his power to save Stiles and Stiles will be damned if he doesn't do the same thing for Derek. 

Derek gets right back in Stiles' face and for a second, he sees a flash, ever so briefly, behind Derek's eyes. A spark that has been missing for a while, but it's gone again. He can feel Derek's body heat, they are so close. If he reached out his hand, he would be met with Derek's chest. Can feel Derek's breath against his face. 

“I'm tired, Stiles,” he finally confesses, voice soft and resigned and lacking in any of the bite that used to envelope every word he spoke. 

“Well get angry,” Stiles yells back. 

He's determined to push him. Determined to get some kind of reaction because this calm acceptance of the situation is not what Stiles signed up for. He is not burying another person and he sure as hell refuses to mourn Derek. 

“I've been angry. You've seen a lot of it. Not any of my more shining moments,” Derek huffs a breath that Stiles feels against his own. Finally, Derek smiles. So soft and sad and barely there that Stiles is sure he's imagining it until the other man speaks once more. 

“I've screwed up a lot in my life. Made a lot of mistakes that cost lives. Hurt a lot of people. Been the reason other people got hurt. Maybe this, maybe this is just all of that catching up to me. But it's okay. I've managed to make a few things right, and if it has to be soon, at least I've done that much.”

Stiles expels a breath. It's possibly the worst thing Derek has ever said. He runs a hand through his hair and tries not to think about how close they are still standing, and how much they don't need to be this close. He doesn't know how to reply to such a statement. Doesn't know how to make Derek believe that he is good, that he hasn't deserved any of what has happened to him. Doesn't know how to make Derek want to stay. 

“What scares you worse?” he finally settles on, “fighting back and losing, or fighting back and winning?” 

It's harsh, but it needs to be said. He was right before when he thought that he and Derek had never been kind to each other. That's not what they were to each other, what they needed from each other.

Derek looks a little like he's been slapped, he closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath. He opens them once again and Stiles knows that if Derek still had the power, they would be blue right now, not the pale green currently looking back at him. 

“I don't know how to just be human,” Derek confesses and Stiles can feel a physical pain down the centre of his chest at the words. He aches to fix what's wrong, so that he never has to hear Derek's voice in that tone ever again. 

He does what comes naturally. Working on pure instinct he raises his hand, places it against Derek's neck brushes a thumb through his stubble. 

“It's not so bad,” he tells the other man gently, forcing a smile into his voice and onto his face, “we're just a little bit more breakable, that's all.”

The problem with Derek is that he's been broken for years. He's not sure how much more breakable Derek can be and live with it. He doesn't want to find out. 

The mood in the room has changed in the wake of their hushed conversation. The only sound between them now is their breathing. It feels like they are on the precipice of something huge. Something that has been building since cop cars and swimming pools and Stiles is infinitely grateful that for the time being Derek only has human senses. 

They don't talk for a long moment, just stand there, breathing. Derek places his hands on Stiles' waist and leans in and _shit, this is it_ Stiles thinks. This is where they leap off the edge and admit that half the reason they annoy each other so much is because of this thing that has sat just underneath the surface for the past year. 

Stiles' heart rate kicks up a notch and he stops breathing altogether. Derek's gaze drops to his lips and back up to his eyes and Stiles can't help but wet his lips in anticipation. 

Just when Stiles can't take the agony of waiting any longer, when he is about to move in and press their mouths together for himself, Derek seems to sag, all the tension leaving his body and instead of kissing Stiles, he rests their foreheads together and breathes Stiles in with his all too human senses, eyes closed. 

They stay that way until they hear the sound of Braeden's footsteps outside the door. They break apart once more. They haven't said a word in endless minutes and the interruption to the peacefulness of the moment is enough to kick Stiles back to the present. 

“I should,” he clears his throat looking at the ground, “I should go,” he says as Braeden pulls the door open and steps inside, oblivious to what she just interrupted. 

“Stiles -” Derek tries, but it's clear he doesn't know what to say either. 

Braeden looks at them quizzically and says nothing as she sheds her jacket and moves towards Derek. 

“It's late,” Stiles excuses, “Malia will be worried if I don't come home soon. I'll call Scott. We'll figure this out. Just, just give us a bit more time, okay?” 

Saying his girlfriends name is like throwing a bucket of ice water over himself, and he can't believe he allowed the last few moments to happen. This thing with Derek, whatever it is, he buried it for the longest time. It needs to be buried again because no good can come of examining what just happened here. 

“I'm not going anywhere,” Derek tells him, and it sounds loaded. Full of promise and expectation and trust. Derek trusts him to fix whatever is happening, to figure out an answer. He doesn't let himself think about the other meanings behind the words as he walks out of the loft without looking back.


End file.
